I live at cemetery road. The pots on our road are death holes. Their jeeps are immortal, they swim in it. But our cabu-cabu and okada have only one life, so they get killed.
You can’t even talk of the rats. The ones that escape our hunt, die of kwashiorkor.
Among the unlucky ones are the cats, they would have to visit the next street before they see meat, else, they too will lack protein and die of the same thing.
Several rugged poles on both sides of the road. They carry wires that have no life. Once in a very long while, children scream the loudest joy you will ever hear,”light-light”. But the children never finish their cry, before epilepsy snatches power supply.
Cobwebs have invaded the government offices, insects lie around there as corpses. Many things have stopped working, the electronics are no good either. The television sets are dusty, even the taps didn’t escape the harmattan
Everything in this street is dead
Counting from the number of obituary bills on the walls, to the number of dead destinies, on the walk. Our hospital is a graveyard, the only lively part of it is the mortuary. So when friends from other streets visit, they understand better next time I tell them I live at cemetery road.